


The Downton Chronicle

by cowherderess



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, also featuring some historical figures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-11 11:05:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11147136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowherderess/pseuds/cowherderess
Summary: The Crawleys are a family divided, one branch Yorkist and the other Lancastrian. In summer 1485, the world changes for all of them when King Richard is defeated in battle by Henry Tudor.(Originally written for M/M AU Day and posted on ffnet.)





	1. Ibis redibis nunquam per bella peribis

CHAPTER ONE  
August 1485

_Malton Castle  
Yorkshire_

The Countess of Grantham and her three daughters and their ladies sat in the castle’s great hall, working desultorily at their embroidery. It was a hot, muggy end-of-summer day, which would be distraction enough, in ordinary times. But these were not ordinary times, and none of them could forget it.

“Mary, do you think he could win?” asked Sybil, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb their mother.

“The Tudor?” Mary retorted, her voice filled with as much contempt as she could muster. “I think it is very unlikely.” She stabbed her needle through the cloth and yanked the thread, which broke.

“But not impossible,” put in Edith, from where she sat on the opposite side of the half-finished altar cloth, quiet and smug as ever.

Mary sighed heavily as she fixed her thread. “You say that as if it were a good thing!” She turned back to her youngest sister. “His Grace has far more battle experience, and twice the army.”

“The Tudor’s soldiers are mostly French mercenaries and Scotsmen, or so they say,” Sybil said wisely.

Edith frowned. “Who says?”

“People.” Sybil shrugged. She had come to resent being stuck in Yorkshire, far from anything interesting. When she could, she escaped her nurse to spend time with people she really ought not to, who could tell her what was happening elsewhere. She was very clever at it too; her sunny disposition concealed a knack for deception.

But Mary knew, of course. There was little she did not know about her youngest sister. And as she, too, wanted to know about those faraway happenings that determined the course of their lives for good or ill, Sybil would report all that she had heard.

Edith frowned, and began to say something, but Mary cut her off. “It is true. His Grace is English through and through, and commands an army of loyal Englishmen–”

“You would have a murderer for a king, then, so long as he is English?” Edith interrupted.

Mary rolled her eyes. “His Grace is a noble and good man, who has been ever kind to our family. I will not listen to wild rumors, and nor should you. Besides, the Tudor is practically French!”

Edith shot back, “So are we.”

“We most certainly are not!”

That attracted the attention of their mother, at last. “Girls, _s’il-vous-plait!_ ” the countess snapped. “Your father could be in danger and still you bicker like little children!”

At the mention of their father, the girls were immediately abashed, and murmured their apologies.

“I am going to the chapel,” Clare continued. “You may either stay here and work silently, or come with me.”

Edith chose to go. She was the most pious of the sisters, perhaps by necessity, for the devout countess had long ago selected this daughter to be the one to enter the Church.

Clare surveyed her remaining daughters with an almost hopeless expression on her face. “Lady O’Brien,” she said finally, to her most trusted companion, “if you would please supervise Lady Mary and Lady Sybil until I return.”

Lady O’Brien nodded her assent. “Certainly, madam.”

Pious she might be, but Edith was also still a young girl, and she smirked at her sisters triumphantly, having evaded the supervision of Lady O’Brien. But Mary simply bent over her needlework, coolly ignoring her.

“If there is any news, please tell me.” And with that, the countess swept out of the hall, Edith following close behind.

Mary and Sybil returned to their embroidery as their mother had bidden them. And so the afternoon dragged on, the time passing unbearably slowly in the silence.

It had been nearly two weeks since the call had come from the king to defend against Henry Tudor’s invasion. Accordingly, her father had gathered his able-bodied men and set off, leaving the women behind to wait and worry.

She shook her head, in an attempt to clear her thoughts of all but the lily she was meant to be stitching. It worked, for a moment, until a sudden chill ran down her spine. In her shock, she dropped her needle.

“Is everything all right, milady?” The question came from Anna, her father’s ward and her own dearest friend.

“No, I– I do not think that it is,” she answered, shaken. With trembling hands, she set her embroidery aside and stood up. “I will go rejoin my mother,” she said to Lady O’Brien. “Sybil, you will come too.”

Her sister nodded obediently, and although clearly curious, did not ask any questions until they were outside. The castle yard, usually a bustling and busy scene, was nearly deserted. There was only Mistress Patmore, plucking a chicken for that night’s dinner, and Father Molesley, pacing as he read from his Bible. The emptiness only added to Mary’s foreboding.

Sybil, at her elbow, asked, “What happened?”

“Something has gone dreadfully wrong,” Mary replied softly, for Sybil’s ears only. “His Grace and Father may need our prayers more than ever.”

She had sufficiently composed herself by the time they reached the little chapel that neither Edith nor their mother asked any questions. In silence, she and Sybil knelt beside them at the altar rail.

-*-*-*-

It was Mary’s habit to visit her grandmother after dinner, on those evenings the dowager countess did not dine with them. That evening was such a one, and Mary was grateful for the opportunity to speak with her grandmother in private.

As ever, Viola was a step ahead. “I hear you had somewhat of a turn this afternoon.” Mary’s eyes widened in surprise, and she added, “I have my ways. You ought to know that by now.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Mary agreed. The old earl, her grandfather, was dead now these many years, and his son long married. But even so, his widow refused to cede all authority, and the servants were still somewhat distrustful of the French countess. When Mary’s father was absent, Viola reigned supreme at Malton. “I was going to tell you, anyway.”

“So I should hope!”

“It was the strangest thing,” she went on, and shivered a little. And she voiced the question that preyed on her mind, none so confident as she had been just hours before. “Grandmother, do you think we really could lose?”

“That is always a possibility.” Mary’s face fell, and her grandmother softened. “My dear, you have grown up in a time of peace. But I remember when Lancaster ruled securely, too. A throne can be terribly transient.”

“Then what will happen to us?”

Viola took her granddaughter’s hand. “We Crawleys always find a way.”

-*-*-*-

Malton was kept in suspense the next day, and the next, until the morning of the third day, when the pounding of hooves could be heard on the drawbridge. The household dropped what they were doing and rushed into the yard.

A young knight slid off his horse and into a bow before the countess. “My lady,” he said, breathing hard, “my lord the earl has sent me ahead to tell you–”

“ _Dieu merci!_ He is safe, then?” Clare interrupted.

“He is, my lady, and he will be home this night.”

There arose a flurry of noise, in exclamations and prayers of thanksgiving for the survival of the Earl. But it dropped away just as quickly, for everyone knew there was more to be told, and everyone could see the sorrowful expression on the knight’s face.

The dowager countess broke the silence. “Well, Gillingham, what of the rest?”

“We lost,” he said. “The king is dead.”

Clare gasped and nearly collapsed, but Lady O’Brien caught her before she fell. “Dead!” the countess echoed. “ _Non!_ But how can it be?”

“His Grace fought valiantly, but in the end we were outnumbered.” His exhaustion seemed to catch up to him all at once. “I beg your leave to retire, my lady.”

“Of course.” Viola spoke for her daughter-in-law. “We thank you for your news, and are glad to see you safe.”

Gillingham bowed once more, and departed. The family retreated inside, where Mary and her sisters followed their mother to her chamber to wait.

It was a quiet, humbled party that dismounted in the courtyard that night. Despite the late hour, the women were still awake. None among them could have slept on such a night as this. Soon there were footsteps on the stairs, and then the earl appeared.

“Oh, _Robert!_ ” Clare flew to him, and he embraced her fiercely for a long moment. “What happened?”

“Treachery!” he said viciously. “His Grace fought valiantly but it was not enough. Carson, a drink, please.” He sat down heavily, and the steward reappeared moments later with a goblet of wine for him. He took a long draught before resuming his tale.

“His Grace was in the thick of it and signaled for Percy to come in with the reserves, but he did not respond.”

The Earl of Northumberland, their neighbor in the north, was of Lancastrian stock, and indeed, Mary now recalled, his father had been killed fighting for Lancaster at Towton. But for many years now, he had served King Edward and King Richard.

“At that, the king went to find the Tudor himself, and it was then that Stanley chose to enter the fray—on Tudor’s side! The coward! Richard ought not have trusted him.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. Percy’s inaction was bad enough, but Stanley! He had seemed true, whatever connections his brother chose to make. And not only had he simply stood by, but he had aided the enemy.

“What of our men?” Clare asked.

“William Mason was killed, and Edward Kent, and several others from the farms. Sir Thomas was injured.” He appeared to be going through a mental list. “My cousin Lord Bracebridge was injured, but not badly,” he added.

“Reginald was there!” Clare exclaimed.

“He was, and so was his son.”

The matter of the Lancaster cousins was a delicate one among the Grantham family, and tonight they felt less inclined than usual to speak of those others, who had supported the usurping Tudor.

So Clare said, “I am only thankful that you are safe, _mon chéri_.”

Robert smiled wearily at that. “I cannot tell you how it gladdens my heart to see you,” he replied, “all of you.” He held out his arms for his daughters, and they went to him.

“We will be all right, Father,” Sybil said. “I know it.”

He kissed the top of her head. “I do wish I shared your confidence.”

-*-*-*-

_Dadlington  
Leicestershire_

Meanwhile, many miles to the south, Matthew Crawley rode through the little village nearest the site of the battle, and dismounted outside the inn. Inside, he found a hive of activity, the first floor having been repurposed into a hospital.

As he had suspected he would, he found his mother there, and hurried over to her. She was busy tying a bandage around a patient’s arm, and did not notice him at first. He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she turned to face him.

“Matthew! There you are.” She kissed his cheek. “I was beginning to worry.”

“No need to worry, Mother,” he replied. “My father is safe as well, and will be along shortly. He sent me ahead to tell you what has happened.”

“What _has_ happened?”

Her patients had brought stories, of course, and hopeful ones, but none so far could say for certain what the result had been.

“We won!” He grinned. “The usurper is dead, and Henry was declared king.”

Isabel crossed herself, and said reverently, “Long live the king!”

The cry was taken up by the boy she had been tending, and a handful of others around the room. Most of the patients, however, were solemnly silent amidst yet another reminder that their cause was lost.

Matthew noticed, and could not help but feel sympathy for them in that moment. Lancaster was all too familiar with loss. And so he led his mother outside to carry on their conversation.

Isabel had seen it too, and when they were away, she asked, “What of Richard?”

“He... he will be buried in the Greyfriars’ church in Leicester, two days hence,” Matthew said, avoiding her eyes. “I do not think you want to hear any further details. Or rather, I do not want to tell them.”

Isabel decided not to press. She knew well enough what happened in the aftermath of battles, having seen many in her lifetime. Instead, she changed the subject. “Did you see our cousin Grantham?"

“Yes, he was there. He remained with the old king almost to the very end.” He stared away into the middle distance, the last chaotic moments of the battle replaying in his memory.

Isabel pursed her lips. “What happened to him?”

“He survived, and will be returning to his family, I imagine.”

Matthew fell silent, his expression turned grim. In truth, the joy of the victory was already beginning to dissipate, and Lord Grantham was a reminder of the challenges King Henry would face, as he returned to his homeland after a lifetime of exile. He would have to adjust to a people he barely knew, and who barely knew him.

“Surely His Grace intends to do something about them– all the supporters of York, I mean.”

“He must.” Matthew nodded. “That is what he and my father were discussing when I left. So I imagine we will soon find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted a version of this first chapter on ffnet three years ago, and always meant to continue the story. Then college got in the way. But now I have time!
> 
> The chapter title is a Latin phrase– ibis redibis nunquam per bella peribis– that is purposely not punctuated, so that it can mean either "you will go, you will return, you will never perish in battle," _or_ "you will go, you will never return, you will perish in battle." I thought it seemed appropriate for a story covering both a winning side and a losing side.
> 
> As for character names, you'll notice I've had to change some. Luckily, most are still appropriate for the 15th century– Mary, Matthew, Sybil, Edith, Robert, Reginald. But "Cora" did not really exist as a name until the 19th century, hence Clare, and flower names were quite rare. However there's nothing that sounds remotely like Violet, so I just went with its Latin version. Also, "Isobel" is the Scottish variant, so I've used the more common English version instead.


	2. Carthago delenda est

CHAPTER TWO  
August 1485

_Leicester  
Leicestershire_

They stayed at Leicester for a week after the battle, where the new king and his entourage busily made plans. The coming months would be crucial to establishing King Henry on his throne, and no misstep could be made. Reginald was particularly conscious of his own family's security in all this change. And so he had formed a plan, which he was able to set in motion one afternoon when the king was to meet with his advisers.

Reginald arrived before any of the others, to find Henry seemingly lost in thought. "You seem troubled, Your Grace," he began, "–if I may say so."

"You may, Bracebridge," the king replied. "We would be fools not to expect trouble. Richard is dead, but his friends are not. The princes may be gone, but York does not lack for champions. Young Warwick and the de la Poles are all still at liberty."

"There is the princess Elizabeth," Reginald said. "When you marry her, will it not satisfy her uncle's friends?"

"Oh, I will marry her, of course." Henry waved his hand, dismissive. Two years earlier, in a public ceremony at the cathedral in Rennes, he had vowed to marry the Yorkist princess, should he become king, to bring their warring family back together. "But it will not be enough. I shall be king in my own right, and I must make York see it."

"Indeed, Your Grace."

"Of course you shall." This was Jasper Tudor, Henry's uncle, who had been his guardian and most loyal supporter through the long years of exile. He entered now, with the air of grandiosity that was always about him now that his cause was won.

Jasper was followed by Lord Stanley, Henry's stepfather, and his brother William, whose well-timed turning of his coat had secured their victory. Then came Matthew, in step with their friend Philibert de Chandée, from the court in Brittany, who had commanded their French soldiers. Finally there was Thomas Brandon, whose brother had died carrying Henry's standard into battle. These were the few he trusted after his dangerous adolescence.

"The Yorkists do not like me," Henry said, once they were all settled around the table. "I cannot imagine that they ever will, so I shall not waste undue energy in courting them." He shook his head. "No; instead, I shall ensure that they cannot make anything of that dislike."

There were murmurs of assent around the table.

"The lands which these men hold are significant, and bring significant incomes," Henry went on. "These would be better reassigned to men I can trust."

"I certainly agree," Jasper said, "but how will you do it?"

"The lords are only thus at the discretion of their sovereign. It seems to me that these, in casting their lots with a usurper, have proven themselves unworthy of that discretion. Under attainder, they can be stripped of their lands and wealth."

"Attainder?" Philibert wondered aloud.

" _Trahison_ ," Matthew translated. Treason– which usually meant not only loss of property, but loss of one's head. He glanced from his father to the king, both of whom wore strange, unsettling expressions. "But how...?"

"If my reign began on the twenty-first of August–which it will have, according to the legal record–then every man who fought for York was fighting against me, his rightful king. And there is no other word for that but treason."

The king appeared immensely satisfied with his plan, as Reginald thought was only right. It was an unorthodox move, but bold too, a declaration to the world of Henry's surety in the rightness of his cause and his security in his position. For the battle had taken place on the twenty- _second_.

Jasper nodded. "Very good, Your Grace."

None around the table raised any objection to the plan. And so, with the nobles' fate decided, it was time to consider those would-be champions of York. "Now then. The Earl of Warwick," Henry went on. "Where is he?"

"Sheriff Hutton, Your Grace, in Yorkshire," Stanley replied, with just the barest sneering pause before Yorkshire. "His sister Margaret is with him."

"I certainly cannot have that." The boy was just ten years old, and he would not attempt anything. But he was the late usurper's nephew, one of the last remaining blossoms of the white rose, and Henry _was_ certain that there were those who would rise up in his name. "Bring them both to London immediately. They may lodge at Westminster, for the time being."

"Princess Elizabeth is also with them," Stanley said. "Shall she come too?"

"Yes," Henry said, with a slight grimace. "But I shall be very busy in these coming weeks and may not have time to see her just yet."

Later, when the meeting was over, Reginald sent Matthew back to their apartment, and by himself lingered in the king's presence.

"What is it, Bracebridge?"

"My lord, I wanted to speak to you about Lord Grantham. He holds a great deal of land in the north, perhaps second only to the Percys. As such, he could be an asset to us."

"Why do you care about him? He clearly never lobbied on your behalf, when it was his king in power. When he is attainted, you can have his lands yourself."

"I thank you, Your Grace." Reginald smiled. "But truly, I think it better to bring this friend of York round to our side, and there is a way: a marriage to unite the houses, like your own– between my son and Grantham's eldest daughter."

"You think he would agree?"

"He is hardly in a position to disagree, with his family's lives in your hands. When he agrees, grant him clemency, and he will be ours. He would be a fool to try anything, while his daughter is at court with us."

Henry raised one eyebrow. "A fool, indeed." But then he nodded. "You know I trust your judgment, Bracebridge. I shall grant my permission for this match."

With that, Reginald knew he was dismissed, and so he returned to his apartments, to find his wife and son both seated by the fire. A book lay open on Isabel's lap, clearly forgotten as she listened to her son tell a story which caused both of them to laugh.

There had been such happy scenes during their years in Brittany, but there was an extra lightness to it now that they were home. And he hoped to secure a safe and comfortable future for these two people he loved most.

Now Matthew turned. He had been waiting to speak to his father since the meeting. "The new edict includes Lord Grantham, does it not? Father, he is our kin– how can you–"

"Kin, yes, who would see it done to me, were the situation reversed," Reginald cut in. "However, there is a chance for leniency. I have arranged it with His Grace, and if my cousin is clever he will take it."

"What is it?"

"All in good time, my boy."

Matthew did not appreciate such treatment, as if he were still a child, when he had in fact fought for their king just as his father had. But he did not attempt to press the matter now. He sat back and reached for another biscuit from the table, and stared sulkily into the fire.

Reginald and Isabel retired to their bedchamber, and prepared for sleep in silence. Only when they were both settled did Isabel speak.

"You will tell _me_ , will you not?"

"Of course, my dear." He reached for her hand. "Grantham will be forgiven, if his daughter marries our son. But it is not for him, really–it is for Matthew. Through this marriage he would be an earl, master of a great castle. The family is beloved in Yorkshire. He will be safe if Henry stays in power, and–" Here, he lowered his voice, daring to voice their great fear. It was why he had not simply accepted the offer of the Grantham lands for himself. "–should Henry not, the girl will be Matthew's security."

_Malton Castle  
Yorkshire_

In the days after the earl's return, the Grantham Crawleys existed in a tense limbo. Robert spent most of his days in counsel with his most trusted knights, in the solar, from which one or another of them would routinely emerge grim-faced and quiet. Clare, meanwhile, had retreated to her chamber, where she lay in bed with a cold compress on her forehead and rose only to go to the chapel. Some days, she summoned Sybil to read to her, but mostly, the three sisters were left to their own devices.

On such occasions, which had been rare enough in their lifetimes, the girls had a favorite spot in the castle ramparts to which they could escape. From that tower they could watch the goings-on in the courtyard and also beyond the castle wall.

"Perhaps we shall all go to the abbey," Edith suggested. This possibility had recently occurred to her, and she liked it very much. Although in many ways the monastic life appealed to her, with its opportunity for quiet study, she wished she could have chosen it for herself. As it was, she did not like to think of her sisters going on without her.

Sybil made a face, and turned to Mary. "Do you really think we would?"

"I cannot think that Downton Abbey would be safer than here." She glanced over the wall, down into the distant moat. In truth, she did not know at all what would happen to them, and perhaps Edith would be right. But she wanted to seem knowledgeable for her beloved Sybil's sake. Also, she had no desire to become a nun, no matter what the alternative might be.

"Yesterday Mother told me she thought she might go home to France, and take us too," Sybil said. "But she has not mentioned it yet to Father."

Mary shook her head decisively. There was yet one more distasteful alternative to becoming a nun, after all. She would rather do so, if it meant staying in England. "Father would not like it," she predicted. "Our king may be defeated, but we shall not run away and leave England to the Tudors!"

"I suppose not." Sybil sighed. "But I should like to travel."

Mary smiled, glad that a lighter topic of conversation had presented itself. "Oh yes? Where would you travel?"

"Oh, everywhere!" She threw her arms wide. "I _would_ go to France, to see Paris and Avignon and everywhere else that Mother has told us about. To Italy, and Bohemia... and I hardly even know what else I have not seen."

Both Mary and Edith looked on fondly at their younger sister's exuberance. They did not agree on much, but they both could be sure that if any of them were likely to venture so far beyond Yorkshire, it would be Sybil.

"I would go to Jerusalem, to walk in our Lord's footsteps and visit His tomb," Edith said, a bit wistfully.

"Perhaps you shall," Sybil replied. "Grandmother has spoken of an ancestor of hers who went on Crusade with her husband, and then stayed to join a convent in Bethlehem."

Edith nodded, but did not seem quite comforted, with that mention of a husband-–usually the only way for a woman to leave the confines of the world she knew. "Roberta, yes, I remember."

Sybil turned to her eldest sister. "And what of you, Mary? You have been to London, at least."

Mary, as the future countess, had been permitted to accompany their parents to King Richard's coronation in London, two years earlier. "Yes, and it was a grand occasion, but now I know I would be content to stay here the rest of my days, and follow Father."

Suddenly, she sighed heavily, and looked out once more beyond the ramparts, to the village, and the River Derwent sparkling in the summer sunlight, and the green fields beyond. This was where she belonged, and she knew she could be a good mistress of it. It seemed a simple enough dream, but in their new reality, neither her inheritance nor their family's future at Malton were assured. Perhaps the new king would give Malton to their cousins.

Edith and Sybil followed their sister's gaze, and all three fell into a contemplative silence. But soon there was a disturbance in the landscape, a rider approaching, raising a cloud of dust behind him. He soon came close enough that his livery was visible.

"Green and white," Mary said, suddenly cold with fear. She looked to Edith, whose eyes were wide.

"He must come from the king," she whispered.

"We must try to find out what he says!" Sybil looked almost excited. "Come–I know where we can listen." With her sisters following close behind, she hurried down the winding staircase.

As the girls were on their way down, Carson was escorting the Tudor's man up to the great hall. Robert, Clare, and Viola were waiting for him. Viola had insisted on being present, overruling her son's objections with a wave of her hand. To Robert's dismay, that had brought Clare out of her chamber to join them too.

He would have been even more greatly concerned to know that his daughters were also present, in a passageway whose entrance was disguised as paneling. But his childhood explorations of the castle, less imaginative than his youngest daughter's, had never led him there, and so he did not know.

The man, Brandon, delivered his letter into the earl's hands, and out of force of habit, dropped to one knee to wait. Robert broke the seal and quickly scanned the letter, and his face went ashen.

"Treason," he said. "I am charged with treason."

"Treason?" Clare echoed, horrified.

"What on earth can you mean?" Viola fixed the messenger with a piercing glare. "My son was fighting for an anointed king– and one, moreover, of a purely royal lineage."

The houses of both York and Lancaster made their claims to the throne based on descent from the great King Edward III of a century earlier. But while the Yorkists had made proper dynastic marriages in the intervening generations, Lancaster's heir now bore the stain of illegitimacy from both his mother and his father.

Brandon merely sneered. "You do not help your cause, madam."

Robert, having read the letter, could explain. "The Tudor has declared himself king by right of conquest, from the twenty-first of August."

The fateful battle had taken place on the twenty-second, but with the stroke of a pen, the Tudor had rewritten history in his favor.

" _C'est pas possible_ ," Clare murmured.

"I suppose it is possible now, for he has done it." He looked back to the letter. "And what is more, he commands my presence in London, 'to discuss a matter in our common interest.'"

"Of course you will not go," Clare said immediately. "It is a trap. He means to imprison you there."

Viola sniffed. "Common interest? What can he possibly think he has in common with you?"

With a swift look, Robert silenced his mother and his wife. "Perhaps it is to do with my cousin. In any case, I cannot see that I have any other choice but to go."

"That is wise, Lord Grantham," Brandon said. "You may have today to make your preparations, but we must leave on the morrow." A beat, and then, "That includes your family."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have set myself a challenge of using a Latin phrase for every chapter title-- to make *some* use of my high school Latin, haha. This one you might have heard before. It means "Carthage must be destroyed." It is from a Roman senator, Cato the Elder, from the 2nd century BC, when Rome was fighting against Carthage (an empire in what's now Tunisia). Carthage had previously been winning, like the Yorkists, and then Rome did destroy them, absolutely mercilessly, a bit like Henry Tudor (though, as you see in this chapter, he shows some mercy in his victory).


End file.
